


On The Morning Of Her Wedding

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dark, Drabble, Dubious Consent, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 05:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20483567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: He's seen this all before. He's done this all before.





	On The Morning Of Her Wedding

He fucked Cersei on the morning of her wedding.

But it wasn’t_ fucking_, not really…had it ever been "fucking" with Cersei? Could it be simplified so far, reduced to so little?

(He knows the answer, hears it echoing in that hollow space at the back of his skull, the spot with the constant ache, pulsing in unison with his heart-)

She’d been radiant in the early light, limned in gold, her hair a beacon, her hands the tide, guiding him to where he belonged-

  
(Guiding him _home_.)

Perhaps it’s this memory that brings him here- perhaps it’s his desire to return and recapture that urges him to tear at the girl’s shift and push her down onto the bed.

The cold morning sun dapples her skin, but it isn’t a smooth white canvas, it isn’t unblemished porcelain. Tiny spots of brown scatter across her neck, her arms, her chest- all stains, all inconsistencies, all seeking to shatter the illusion.

She wears a bauble about her neck; onyx and ruby, the colors of House Targaryen, a sign of respect for her soon-to-be husband and his (supposed) family’s legacy. And as he leans over her, he notices a violent red splotch behind her ear and a love bruise on her neck, so purple it nearly looks black-

He thinks that perhaps this ‘Aegon’ is no impostor. That’s the Targaryen way, after all: leaving their mark at the site of conquest.

But Lannisters can leave marks, too. He’d certainly done so with Cersei, all those years ago; she’d been so angry, so beautiful in her fury as she pressed a cold compress to the livid bloom on her collarbone, as she draped jewels around her neck in an effort to hide the evidence of his love. It hadn’t mattered in the end; he could have covered her in bites, could have left his seed drying on her skin- Robert Baratheon would never have known the difference.

This Aegon likes his drink, nearly as much as his father’s killer- perhaps he shan’t notice the constellation of tooth marks trailing the curve of the girl’s throat. Perhaps he shan’t notice the beard burns on her inner thighs…

But the girl knows well enough what he’s about. She squirms beneath him, peeping her objections, and he holds her still, the golden hand pressing hard into her hip.

Her little hands bat against him, quick and frantic as a moth’s wings. But her blows are too weak, her protests too half-hearted-

On that other morning, in that other lifetime, Cersei had done the same. Light swats, breathy peeps, all vanishing into the ether when her pleasure took hold. And then there was only the coiling of limbs, the arching of her back, the low moans in her throat as she begged him for more, more…

Yes, he’s seen this all before. He’s done this all before. And if he waits long enough, if he holds tight enough and thrusts hard enough…

(He clings to the lies, a desperate one-handed grasp, and when he closes his eyes and focuses on his own breathing, he can ignore the quiet tears spilling down the girl’s face.)


End file.
